


Losing Yourself, In Part

by dettiot



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dettiot/pseuds/dettiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney's not excited by the prospect of working with Sark on a mission for SD-6.  The fact that they have to playact as one of literature's most famous couples doesn't help matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Yourself, In Part

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-The Counteragent, pre-going to India part of Passage--I just had to use Will's line from Passage Part One, thus the weird timeline. :-)

Some days, the only thing that got her out of bed was the thought of taking Sloane down. Destroying his life, making him suffer as she had suffered. Yet the best person to put Sloane in that position--Emily--was the woman that Sydney considered a second mother.

Loyalties could be a pain in the ass sometimes.

Of course, given the alternative, she'd take the conflict and the pain.

Sydney tried to not glare obviously at Sark as she pretended to listen to Sloane pontificating. But she found her eyes on her enemy/colleague too much for her comfort. True, he wasn't hard on the eyes, in a spoiled college boy kind of way, but that didn't mean she wanted him there in the briefing room. He had no sense of loyalty and an inability to trust anyone, and today's partner was tomorrow's pawn. She found it very unlikely that he wouldn't betray them at some point, best interest or no.

She felt a touch on her arm, and realized her father was trying to remind her where she was. Sydney directed her attention back to Sloane, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

" . . . it is crucial for SD-6 to be successful in obtaining this intelligence. Therefore, Agent Bristow, Mr. Sark, you'll be intercepting Petrov to allow us to monitor the information exchange. Jack will give you the parameters; Marshall has already begun working on the op-tech."

Before Sydney could protest, Sloane had risen and left the room, followed by Sark. She sighed and turned towards her father. Before he could begin speaking, she said, "I know, I know."

Her father engaged the bug-killer before he replied. "Sydney, you cannot appear as if you are unwilling to work with Sark. From Sloane's perspective, Sark has proven his trustworthiness, so you must be more accepting."

"I know, Dad. But every time I look at him, I remember how he came to work here, and I just . . ." Her voice trailed off as she tried to find a way to articulate her feelings only to fail. With a shrug, she said, "I can't trust him."

"That'll make your upcoming mission difficult."

"You're saying I **should** trust him?" Sydney asked in surprise.

"Of course not. But you'll have to develop some kind of working relationship with Sark, or else the consequences could be dire."

Sydney sighed. "So what are we doing that's so bad?"

Jack shook his head. "I think I'd rather not reveal the details until we've met with Sark," he said, evincing an unusual amount of hesitation for her father.

"Oh, God," Sydney said with growing horror. "Not husband and wife?"

"No, that would be preferable, I believe." He stood and exited the room with that cryptic comment, but not without Sydney hot on his heels.

"What do you mean?" she asked as she followed him to Sark's workstation, where the man in question was busily typing on his computer. Instead of answering her directly, her father launched into the mission details.

"Tomorrow night, the two of you will be attending the Minsk Theatrical Ball. Mr. Sark, I understand you are familiar with this event?"

"Indeed," he said. "It's a highlight of the Russian social calendar, even when held in a backwater like Minsk. The event was created by actors during the last days of Nicholas II's reign, as a way to practice their craft during uncertain times and with few theatres in operation. Participants are expected to not just appear in costume, but to be the characters their costumes represent. Only those who can truly play their parts are actually given an invitation to participate in the ball--otherwise, you are just permitted to attend and watch." He smirked a bit at Sydney. "Lucky for us, we get to perform for the crowd."

Sydney used Glare #47 on him as Jack began speaking. "The target is Count Dmitri Alexandrovich Petrov, who will be appearing as Peter the Great. Sark will provide a distraction while Sydney plants a recording device on Petrov. The device must be in place before 11:45 pm; at that time Petrov will be meeting with a member of Black Sash about a nuclear weapon the Chinese are trying to develop."

She nodded her understanding before asking, "Whom will we be impersonating?"

Sark's smirk, merely irritating before, turned into something downright devilish. "Have you felt the urge to throw yourself under any trains lately?"

She paused for a moment, trying to place the reference, before she understood. "Anna Karenina?" she said in disbelief.

Sark made a small bow. "Count Vronsky at your service."

"Oh, God," Sydney said. Before she could say anything else, her father nudged her, and she forced herself to act appropriately. "Well, it's certainly appropriate casting."

Sark nodded. "The lovely, older woman who enchants the young, dashing soldier?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, hating the fact that she had to agree with him about how the roles fit them. But she certainly wasn't going to let him know that she agreed with him. "Or a woman who's forced to make unforgivable choices due to society's rules?" 

He shrugged elegantly. "You can see why it appealed to me. You can blame me, of course, as I made the selection of roles. Our flight leaves tonight at ten o'clock. I'll meet you on the plane," he said before strolling out of the office.

She turned to Jack, who had remained silent during her exchange with Sark. "Anna Karenina?" she asked again.

"Would you have prefered Romeo and Juliet?" Jack asked dryly.

Sydney shuddered. "Definitely not." She sighed, and said, "Will you be coming with us?"

Jack shook his head. "Before you leave, see Marshall about the bug you'll be planting." He gazed at her for a moment, and then merely said, "Be safe," his eyes giving additional layers of meaning to the simple statement.

She smiled a bit at her father, and said, "I will." She watched her father walk out of the office, and sighed a bit at all the things that remained unsaid between them. Ever since Irina Derevko's reappearance, the tension Jack Bristow felt towards his fomer wife had spilled over into Sydney's relationship with him. From the conversations she had shared with her mother, it was clear that she only knew a fraction of details about her parents' marriage.. And while Sydney wasn't rushing to find out all those details, she wished she knew enough to avoid the minefields.

But then, knowing her luck, she'd find all-new minefields, she mused as she headed off to Marshall's office.

***

Sydney turned the pages of her book and tried not to look at Sark, who was staring at her. She didn't know why he always seemed to have his blue eyes on her, but it seemed to be his favorite pasttime. It unnerved her. 

They were waiting for the plane to take off, and she was trying to catch up on the story of Anna Karenina in preparation for the mission. But she was about ready to throw her book at her companion--and seeing as how it was a substantial book, the thought of the damage it would do to him was not displeasing. 

"I'm sure you have something better to do than stare at me, Sark," she commented, keeping her eyes focused on the passage detailing Anna's first meeting with Vronksy.

"Nothing so interesting," he said calmly.

She looked over at him, at how he leaned back in his seat, all relaxed decadence. "Are you just trying to annoy me?"

"If I was, I'd be succeeding beyond my wildest hopes," he retorted.

"Trust you not to prepare at all," she muttered in frustration.

"I happen to know Anna Karenina fairly well already, so I thought I could rely on my memory. Tell me, who was that vaccine for, anyway?"

She started at his question. When Sark had coerced her cooperation in Paldiski, he hadn't seemed to care who the vaccine was for. And since she had no idea whether Sark knew she was a double agent, she couldn't very well say the vaccine had been for her CIA handler. 

And why the hell did he care now?

She tried to keep her face neutral as she spoke. "It was for someone who was accidentally exposed to the Rambaldi device in Hong Kong. SD-6 became aware of the exposure and sought to cure the individual, to prevent a public panic over an unknown contagion."

He shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think so. You were entirely too focused on that antidote for the recipient to be some innocent bystander." He moved forward in his seat, leaning towards her. "Was it your partner? Your father?" He smirked a bit. "Or could it have been someone you're closer to? Like that reporter?" He raised an eyebrow.

Sydney tried not to glare at him. "Sloane sent me and I never knew who needed it. Unlike some people, I'm willing to risk my life for a cause, for what's right."

Sark leaned back in his chair. "Ahh. An idealistic Girl Scout. I would have pegged you as a realist, if your father is any example to go by." He paused, and she could almost hear the words "or your mother" hanging in the air. 

Sark didn't speak again, and she dropped her eyes back to her book. She heard rustling and out of the corner of her eye noticed him going through some paperwork. And she gave thanks that she had been able to get him off the subject, even if his attention had turned towards things she'd rather not think about. 

The plane proceeded smoothly through takeoff and into the air, and Sydney managed to skim through a third of the book before her eyes started drooping. She stowed the book in her carry-on and went to the restroom to clean up. Inside the cramped room, she stared at herself in the mirror, wondering once again at the choices she had made in the past few months. Letting herself grow closer to Vaughn, finding out about the woman her mother was, choosing to turn Sloane over to Sark. Some days, she didn't recognize the woman in the mirror anymore; it was like she was an actress in a long-running play, but the role she played was one she couldn't perform anymore. A role that she had grown beyond.

She stuck her tongue out at her reflection. "Real obvious choice of metaphor there, Syd," she said in disgust. "Some grad student you are." She sighed and finished up her preparations for bed.

When she returned to the cabin, the lights had been dimmed and Sark had removed his jacket and tie, and he was now laying down in his reclining seat with his previously immaculate shirt now partially unbuttoned and rumpled, complete with rolled-up sleeves.

And for the oddest reason, she found her attention focused on his wrists. It wasn't a part of the body that you thought about a lot; they were pretty utilitarian. Yet for some reason, the way his arms tapered and then met his hands . . . well, it caught her attention. Categorically, you could say that Sark was attractive. But why in the world was she suddenly thinking about it? And of all things, why was she fixating on his wrists?

She realized that she was standing in the aisle by his seat, just staring at him. This wouldn't do at all. With a shake of her head, she quickly dropped into her seat and started wriggling around, trying to find a comfortable spot. 

But sleep was a long time in coming.

***

As Sark had pointed out, Minsk was a relative backwater, even with being one of Russia's largest cities. Despite decades of Soviet rule, the city still retained some fairy-tale touches that Sydney enjoyed in the ride from the airport to their hotel. She had managed to get some sleep on the plane, and after years of traveling, jet lag didn't affect her that much. 

So she didn't understand why she agreed to Sark's offer of lunch before they prepared for tonight's mission. True, she would need to eat, and sharing lunch with her colleague was perfectly appropriate, even expected. It wasn't like a lack of sleep was the reason she agreed. Instead, as he had waited for her answer, she had noticed his wrists, and her mind had flashed back to last night. And before she realized it, she had said yes.

You're getting all worked up over nothing, she told herself as she freshened up. This is work, pure and simple. Nothing to be nervous about. Sydney stared at her reflection and pointed her finger at the mirror in accusation. You're acting crazy, so cut it out, she thought sternly. 

With that, she exited the bathroom to find Sark waiting in the living room. She was grateful for spaciousness of the suite--it was the size of some small condos, and allowed them to not feel like they were co-existing on top of one another. "Supplies here?" she asked, trying to stay business-like.

Sark nodded. "They're fairly elaborate costumes, so we'll need to budget enough time for our preparations." He paused and then shifted his weight. "Ready for lunch? There's a small restaurant around the corner that I'd like to visit again, unless you'd rather eat here."

"Let's go out--I could use a bit of a walk," she said, stretching a bit. 

There was no conversation as they walked to the restaurant, and the cool weather made her pull her coat closer to her body. Their steps had fallen into a rhythym, and they covered the two blocks to the restaurant with ease. Once inside, they were quickly seated in a small private dining room, and they were handed thick leather-bound menus by a waiter.

"I recommend the pierogies," Sark said as he perused the menu.

"Better pierogies than borscht," Sydney commented idly.

"You've obviously never had really good borscht then," he said. 

She couldn't help the grin that crossed her face. "Amazing that something made out of cabbage could ever be considered 'really good'."

Sark tsked. "Someone wasn't made to eat her vegetables growing up."

"And I suppose you were," Sydney retorted. 

He merely raised an eyebrow at her. Sydney returned her attention to the menu, feeling a bit ill at ease. Being able to hold a witty conversation with Sark was very surprising. She wondered what the rest of the day would hold.

***

What had she gotten herself into?

This wasn't a dress: more of an excuse for a dress. 

Sydney stared in dismay at her costume for tonight. Somehow, she didn't think early twentieth-century Russian women wore low-cut thin silk dresses, with a hemline that came scant inches below her waist. 

Someone was going to die tonight. And that cocky British son-of-a-bitch, to use Will's phrase, was going to suffer.

"So, what do you think?"

She turned around and nearly groaned. Sark stood there, dressed in a spotless tuxedo and a huge smirk. 

"You cannot think I'm going to wear this," she said coldly, pulling herself to her full height.

He smiled at her for a moment, and then shook his head. "Your dress is in the wardrobe."

She huffed out a breath and stormed over to the closet. "I bet you thought that was really funny," she said, pulling out a more appropriate gown--a sparkling evening gown with a matching fur stole. "However did you get such a clever idea?" 

"Actually it was a comment that Flinkman made. About how nice it must be that for once you didn't have to look like a prostitute, not, as he assured me, 'that he thought of Ms. Bristow as a prostitute, no, she's a very nice woman, with no need to use sex to get what she wants, not that she couldn't . . .'" Sark's voice trailed off, and he seemed to be stifling laughter. 

Sydney stomped into the bathroom and changed as quickly as possible. Her hair went up, a touch of makeup went on, and a pair of high heels completed the outfit. By the time she had finished her preparations, she felt more composed, although still annoyed with Sark and confused over why he'd pulled such a juvenile prank. Between this and the conversations they'd had at lunch, full of wit and wordplay, she was getting a very different picture of Sark. One that showed cracks in that cool facade he presented to the world at large. 

She swept out of the bathroom within fifteen minutes of entering, to find Sark was standing in front of a window, the light from the street playing across his face. He turned towards her, and she thought she saw his eyes widen. 

"Well, let's get this show on the road," she said, picking up the stole and draping it around her shoulders.

She heard a small cough and then Sark said, "Yes--of course," crossing the room and offering her his arm. 

As they walked through the hallways to the elevator, she caught sight of them in a mirror, and had to admit they looked the part. The costume suited her, and made her look taller and more regal. Sark looked young, charming, gallant--the picture of Vronsky. 

When they paused in front of the mirrored elevator doors, watching the indicator show the elevator's progress towards their floor, Sark leaned over and said, "You look very much like her."

"Anna?" she asked, thinking that he had read her mind.

He shook his head. "No. Irina."

She stared at him in surprise, but chose not to say anything as the elevator doors glided open. She followed him into the elevator, and tried not to think about why she felt a twinge of jealousy towards her own mother. 

***

The evening seemed to have lasted forever and only a moment. When they had arrived, Sark had presented their invitations to the doorman, and once they were inside the ballroom, he had pulled her into his arms and started leading her in a waltz. He murmured in her ear, "Remember, we're pretending that Anna and Vronsky are ridiculously in love, so let's keep that in mind, shall we?"

She had nodded, and flashed a tender, loving smile towards him. She felt his hand move slightly on her back, and they continued to spin across the room.

They spent the evening dancing, sipping drinks and nibbling on hors d'oeuvres. It was oddly reminiscient of her senior prom, which she had attended with a boy she had been friendly with but not one in whom she was romantically interested. So they had talked a lot that night, enjoying time spent together without pressure. 

Yet this evening was also unlike that long-ago night. Because there was pressure.

Sark, as needed, was acting the part of the besotted young man, intoxicated with an older, wiser woman. And Sydney was supposed to be the elegant woman who found herself young again when in the company of Vronsky. And she was. She felt a lightness within her that she hadn't felt for months, not since before she knew the truth about SD-6. Tonight, she didn't have to worry about her parents or being a double agent. She was merely a woman in love. 

And she found that being in love with Vronsky, as played by Sark, was surprisingly easy. She should be shocked by this. Amazed that this cold-blooded killer frat-boy could be tender and affectionate and amusing and interesting. Yet, he was all those things, and more. This fact was annoying and confusing to her. And dangerous.

Sydney tried to distract herself from her thoughts by looking around the room, at anyone other than Sark. Catching sight of an ornate clock, she noticed the time. 

"It's 11:30," she muttered to Sark. "What do you have planned?"

Sark pulled her towards a darkened corner, and leaned towards her, whispering in her ear. "Nothing much. You'll approach Petrov and engage him in conversation. Maneuver him into dancing, and at the right moment, you'll plant the device on him."

She nodded. "All right. Separate now?"

"Yes--you might want to approach him as if we've had a bit of a tiff. I noticed Petrov watching us earlier."

She had noticed Petrov as well and how he had stared at them with an appraising look in his eye. It had sent a shiver down her spine, and she had quickly looked away. But now it was time to meet the lion in his den. Sydney glanced around the ballroom and located Petrov, before turning back to Sark. She straightened her shoulders, and spoke loudly. "You do not understand! You ask the impossible of me."

Sark picked up on what she was doing, and raised his own voice when he replied. "This life is impossible! Why not trade one impossible existence, where we would be apart, for another--one where we could be together, forever?"

She shook her head, and swept away from Sark, heading towards the bar that was only a half-dozen yards away from the place they had been standing. Petrov was standing to the side, a glass in his hand. She ordered a double whiskey, and once she had received her drink, she drifted towards Petrov. She took a long drink, and said, "This is the last time I allow myself to be charmed by a smile and a young face."

Petrov, an older man whose face was dwarfed by a huge beard, chuckled robustly. "My dear, it is not often a beautiful woman like yourself gets taken in by a young buck. But you obviously have gained some wisdom out of the experience."

She smiled flirtatously. "Yes--I think I shall only look for more . . . experienced men, in the future." She took a sip of her drink, letting her eyes flash at him over the rim of her glass. 

"Quite," he said, his smile growing. The sound of a waltz striking up drew both of their attention, and he extended his arm towards her. "Might I have the pleasure of this dance?" Sydney placed her glass on a nearby table and took his arm with another smile. 

They moved smoothly onto the dance floor, and began to move in unison. He was an excellent dancer, and she had no trouble following his lead. As they glided around the floor, she caught a glimpse of Sark out of the corner of her eye, and felt a slight twinge of anxiety. What exactly did he have planned?

The next time Sark came into her view, he seemed to be waiting for her to make eye contact. When she did, he merely winked at her. She took that as the signal, and slowly ran one hand down from around Petrov's neck to his shoulder, smiling at him. 

Suddenly, Sark appeared at Petrov's elbow. "Excuse me, sir," he said. "You are dancing with my partner. Might I trouble you to return her to me?"

Sydney stepped away from Petrov, her hands going behind her back. She quickly fished out the bug from its resting place against the zipper of her dress. 

Petrov had turned to Sark and stood with his chest puffed out. "You will excuse me, young man, but I believe the lady does not wish this."

Sark glared at Sydney, and turned to Petrov. "I do not believe you can speak for the lady, **sir** ," he said, his sarcastic voice making the honorific an insult.

Before the situation went any further, Sydney stepped forward, placing her hand on Petrov's shoulder. "You are too kind, rushing to protect the damsel," she said with a toss of her head and a slip of her hand from his shoulder to his front. She hoped he hadn't sensed her placing the bug on his collar, just under his beard. "But I think, as pleasant as our dance has been, that I really should depart, before eager tongues begin to wag," waving a hand around the ballroom. Many pairs of eyes were directed towards the threesome on the dance floor, and Sydney tried to inject an embarrassed note into her voice. 

Petrov turned towards Sydney, and said, "Are you sure, my dear?"

Sydney looked over at Sark, and said, "A moment, darling?" He nodded, and moved away with a short glower at Petrov. She turned back to Petrov. "I'm sorry--I'm afraid we had one of our little fights, and you were drawn into it. I hope you won't hold it against me, but I should go."

Petrov looked at her for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders. "I am befuddled by you, so I shall let you leave." He bent down and grasped one of her hands, kissing it lightly. "Good evening, Mrs. Karenina. Or, should I say, Ms. Bristow?"

Sydney felt her eyes widen for a millisecond, and threw a quick glance at Sark. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir. Thank you for the dance."

"Give your mother my regards," he said as he released her hand. "She has trained both you and your young man how to play your parts quite well; one would think the two of you truly cared about each other."

She knew that to respond to his statements would be suicidial, so she didn't, even though several answers were bubbling up to her lips. Sydney moved away from Petrov in a fog, taking Sark's arm automatically and allowing him to pull her out of the room. 

"You planted the device?" he whispered. 

She nodded, and then said quietly. "He knew who I was."

Sark stopped and turned towards her. "He made you?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure whether he just connected me to my mother, or whether he knew what I do." She paused. "He knew who you were, too. Or, at least that you worked with my mother. It's possible that he thinks we both worked for Irina. But he may also know I work for SD-6."

He cursed under his breath, and started walking quickly. "Damn stupid mission," he said. "I told Sloane it was utter foolishness, considering that Petrov had worked closely with Irina."

"He did?" she asked in confusion. "Then why the hell did Sloane . . .?"

"My thoughts exactly," Sark said.

***

As they climbed into the surveillance van, Sark wasted no time in asking, "Do we have it?"

Dixon nodded at him. "Good work, you two," he said, his smile wide yet strained. 

"We have to get the hell out of here--Petrov knows who we are," Sark said angrily. Dixon scowled and quickly took the wheel, sending the van through small crowded streets. He started speaking to Sark, trying to figure out the situation and whether they should proceed directly to the airport.

Sydney sat back and watched all this unfold, her mind elsewhere. What did Petrov mean, about both Sark and herself being trained by Irina? And what was that business about them caring for each other?

She looked at Sark, his profile illuminated occasionally by brief flashes of light from streetlamps. His face was placid, but she thought she detected anger and frustration in the rigidness of his arms. For a moment, she wished that the evening hadn't ended like this. Hadn't ended in worry and questions. It would have been nice if things could have progressed as they had been going. They could have danced some more, drunk a little champagne and maybe gotten a bit tipsy. And in that lovely half-inebriation, she might have let herself kiss him, just to see what it would be like. 

Sydney closed her eyes, feeling ashamed. She couldn't explain these feelings that had developed within her during the last few days. She felt angry and embarrassed that she let herself be so taken in by a passing fancy. She could have jeopardized the mission. It was only luck that allowed them to escape after Petrov identified them; she had seen no sign that he knew who she was, because she had let herself get distracted by banter and a pair of blue eyes. 

She was drawn out of her thoughts by the touch of Sark's hand on her tightly clenched fists. "You played your part well, Agent Bristow. I was thoroughly convinced that you had fallen madly in love with me," he said, a smirk twisting his lips.

She looked at him for a long moment, feeling her insides twist. It had all been a part, and she should have remembered that. She had made the mistake that a rookie agent was always warned against: becoming the part instead of playing the part. The fantasy was so sweet that giving in to him had seemed possible, for a moment. Yet now the curtain had dropped on the performance, and they were back to who they really were. 

She looked out the window, and spoke quietly. "You were very convincing as well. I started thinking you were a human being after all, and not a cold-blooded bastard."

There was a long pause before Sark chuckled, but it sounded forced. "Thank you for the lovely compliment. It's a shame our evening had to end so abruptly. But perhaps that is for the best. We wouldn't want to get lost in our parts," he said.

She turned towards him, angered by his words. But one look at his face wiped away the anger and left confusion in its place. For his face did not wear its normal mocking smirk. Instead, his eyes were full of regret. Like he wished things could be different . . . 

She tilted her head, wondering if her sense of his expression was correct. But before she could figure it out, his face resumed its inscrutable facade and a veil dropped over his eyes. 

Sydney turned away from him, and focused on the back of Dixon's head as he drove them back to their hotel. He was detailing the next step in the operations against Black Sash, and she nodded when needed, and even threw out an occasional comment. Yet her mind was miles away, as she let herself think about the part she got lost in. 

They were driving past the train station, irony of ironies, when she was ready to let it go. She pressed her hand against the window, seeing a train pulling away from the station, and closed her eyes. And when she opened them, she had managed to push away the feelings.

She glanced over at Sark, and watched him for a moment, glad to find that she didn't feel any of those flutters anymore. She let herself get drawn into a conversation with Dixon, and soon she had forgotten Sark was there. She had come back to herself, and wouldn't be bothered by such foolish feelings anymore.

At least, that was what she told herself. 

End.


End file.
